His Burnt Heart
by Viv24
Summary: What if Sherlock pulled the trigger before Moriarty decided not to kill them at the end of the Great Game? (Johnlock)


**I do not own any of the characters in this fic.**

**A/N: This fic took place at the end of the Great Game. I wrote in on the way to San Francisco and back in a car on a note app, then later edited on my computer. Please review and enjoy!**

* * *

_"I will burn you. I will burn... the heart out of you."_

_"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."_

_"But we both know that's not quite true."_

The gun was pointed towards the explosive vest across the pool deck. Sherlock was steady, not a tremble to what he was about to do. On his side, John stared at him from the ground, eyes wide and waiting. Moriarty simply stood across from him, wearing an anticipated look. He was a good actor, but Sherlock could see right through him, that slight weary expression well hidden behind his psychopathic black eyes.

Time passed slowly, as if each second was stretched a mile. Everyone was waiting, for Sherlock held in his hand the future of all their lives. One fateful squeeze and there will be flames and ashes. But Sherlock was not scared. He knew that he would die young and when he did, he wanted to die like this, in battle. The only thing holding him back was the man by his side; his friend, his blogger, his soldier. Although Sherlock knew that John was with him on this, he was still hesitant. What was it about this man that knew him more than anybody else, including his own brother? Not only that, he accepted him for who he was and nobody has ever done so or tried to before. The man who exclaimed "fantastic" and "amazing" when others jeered "freak" and "psychopath". Now Sherlock was about to lose the only life that truly mattered to him.

* * *

John had always thought he would live and die in the army as a soldier. When the bullet entered his shoulder and he laid there in the eye of the storm, he painfully whispered, "Please God, let me live." But in his heart, he had already accepted his impending dire fate and drifted off with that knowledge. The next thing he remember was drowsily waking up in a makeshift hospital, having been saved just moments before he joined many of his deceased comrades. The time he spent in London before Sherlock was one of the most mediocre intervals of his existence and John found himself almost wishing he had not been saved, for his life had always been with the army and now that that was gone, he became nothing more than a shell.

And then he met the world's only consulting detective.

Now as John watched Sherlock pointing his gun at the explosive vest, he was a soldier once more. But it was different this time. The only thing he wanted more than saving his own life was saving Sherlock's, the man so remarkable in every way his mere presence sometimes knocked the soldier breathless. He was magnificent, beautiful, and simply brilliant. Sherlock was John's night and he was his morning; neither can exist without the other. He was the heart and the detective was the brain, and together, they were one.

* * *

A few seconds passed and finally, Sherlock pulled the trigger. If he thought time was passing slowly, then he may as well not move at all now. They say your life flash before your eyes when you are about to die, but Sherlock had never believed a word of it. Certainly he had placed himself in many life-or-death situations before, but not one where he had a choice. Now, as his index finger shifted, Sherlock remembered only his life after John became his flatmate; the times they spent, the laughter, the arguments, but most of all, the companionship. What felt like a few months was more than the detective had ever known in the past decade for his life, and he was going to lose all of that.

Sherlock watched the explosion as if he was watching a slow and dramatic scene in a movie. The loud bang broke his eardrums, but he didn't feel the pain. The only thing he felt was something hard crashing against the side of his body and then, he was underwater.

Sherlock was soon surrounded by the liquid that engulfed his entire being, but he was too much in shock to comprehend what had happened. He was cold, but wrapped by something bulky above him. Blinking through the chlorinated water, Sherlock looked up at the face he knew like the back of his hand, John's. The soldier was staring at him softly, but not attempting to make a move. All was quiet now and the detective began to swim upwards, clutching tightly to the soldier's body and gasping as the hot air entered his tight lungs. Coughing, Sherlock swam to the side of the pool and dragged John up with him.

The place was in ruins with Moriarty's body laying in a twisted, bloody position across the pool, having been blown back into a wall by the explosion. His face held a surprised expression while his eyes were as empty as always.

Sherlock looked down at the soldier and realized that he had not moved. He began to shake his body and realized how limp he was. Shakily, the detective bent his head over his flatmate's heart and found that it was silent.

"John," he choked as he attempted to check the pulse again, this time with two fingers on his neck, but felt nothing. John merely gazed back lightly, seeing nothing at all.

"No," Sherlock muttered frantically over and over again as he interlaced one hand over the other and compressed his chest. Tilting John's head upwards, the detective dipped down and exhaled into it, repeating the process again. As he compressed the soldier's chest for the fifth turn, each press grew harder and harder until finally, Sherlock let out a strangled cry and collapsed over John's cold body. Tears were streaming uncontrollably out of his blue-green eyes and for the first time since he was a child, he let out a sob.

* * *

At the very last moment, John shoved himself against Sherlock's body into the pool. His last thought screamed, "Sherlock!" and they fell together, his body protecting the detective's. John was killed instantly, the power of the explosion shattering his inner being, but he died knowing that as a soldier, he protected the man he loved till the very end, and that comforted him shortly before he felt nothing at all.

* * *

"Please, God, no," Sherlock whispered one last time as he raised his weary head and stared into the soldier's eyes. With one hand, he lightly closed them shut. The detective leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss onto the dead man's lips; a final goodbye. He then held his lifeless body in his arms and cradled the sleeping soldier until finally losing conscious himself as a broken man. The world around him was dead silent and his heart was completely and utterly burnt out of him.

Somewhere in the ruins, a phone was ringing to the tune of "Stayin' Alive."

* * *

Miles away, Irene Adler sat on her bed with a phone to her ear, but no one answered. She sighed and started a text message instead, hoping that he would reply. Before pressing the "send" button, one of her assistants approached her quietly and whispered into her ear. Irene froze for a moment, then took a deep breath and sent her away with a tight smile. The dominatrix with enough power to cause a storm stared at the phone in her hand. Today was quiet, as if a tornado had finally ended and all left was the damage of its existence.

"The broken detective and his burnt heart," she murmured, "I'm sorry I was too late."

Her thumb stroke the screen of her phone, which displayed a text message:

_"Wrong day to die, Jim dear. Let's have dinner and we'll talk."_** -IA**

The Woman pressed the top right button and the message that was never sent deleted forever.


End file.
